Read Cherringham--A Fatal Fall Online
Authors: Matthew Costello
Cherringham--A Fatal Fall
- Cover
- Cherringham - A Cosy Crime Series
- The Authors
- Main Characters
- A Fatal Fall
- Copyright
- 1. A Step in the Dark
- 2. A Hard Frost
- 3. The Official Story
- 4. Dylan McCabe and Gary Sparks
- 5. The Site of the Accident
- 6. Breaking the Ice
- 7. Of Mates and Secrets
- 8. A Favour
- 9. Unwelcome Visitors
- 10. A Family Man
- 11. Secret Lives
- 12. A Small Break-in
- 13. What the Record Shows
- 14. A Winter’s Morning
- 15. One Step Forward
- 16. The Mystery Girl
- 17. Truth and Lies
- 18. Drinks with the Boss
- 19. Merry Christmas!
- Next episode
- Looking for more suspense?
“Cherringham — A Cosy Crime Series” is a series made up of self-contained stories. A new episode is released each month. The series is published in English as well as in German, and is only available in e-book form.
Matthew Costello’s
award-winning work across all media has meshed story, gameplay and technology. He wrote and designed dozens of best-selling games including the critically acclaimed
The 7th Guest
,
Doom 3
,
Rage
and
Pirates of the Caribbean
. In addition, he published various novels such as
Vacation
(2011),
Home
(2012) and
Beneath Still Waters
(1989), which was also turned into a movie. His latest novel
Star Road
, co-authored with Rick Hautala, was published in 2014.
Neil Richards
has worked as a producer and writer in TV and film creating scripts for the likes of BBC, Disney, Channel 4 and earning numerous BAFTA nominations along the way. He's also written story and script for over 20 video games including
The Da Vinci Code
and
Just Cause
, and consults around the world on digital story-telling.
Jack Brennan
is a former NYPD homicide detective who lost his wife a year ago. Being retired, all he wants is peace and quiet. Which is what he hopes to find in the quiet town of Cherringham, UK. Living on a canal boat, he enjoys his solitude. But soon enough he discovers that something is missing — the challenge of solving crimes. Surprisingly, Cherringham can help him with that.
Sarah Edwards
is a web designer who was living in London with her husband and two kids. Two years ago, he ran off with his sexy American boss, and Sarah’s world fell apart. With her children she moved back to her home town, laid-back Cherringham. But the small town atmosphere is killing her all over again — nothing ever happens. At least, that’s what she thinks until Jack enters her life and changes it for good or worse …
Matthew Costello
Neil Richards
CHERRINGHAM
A COSY CRIME SERIES
A Fatal Fall
BASTEI ENTERTAINMENT
Digital original edition
Bastei Entertainment is an imprint of Bastei Lübbe AG
Copyright © 2015 by Bastei Lübbe AG, Schanzenstraße 6-20, 51063 Cologne, Germany
Written by Matthew Costello and Neil Richards
Edited by Victoria Pepe
Project management: Lori Herber
Cover illustration: © shutterstock/ Buslik/ BackyardProduction/ Bastian Kienitz/ artemisphoto/ Helen Hotson
Cover design: Jeannine Schmelzer
E-book production: Urban
SatzKonzept
, Düsseldorf
ISBN 978-3-7325-0847-1
Dylan McCabe spun the wheel of the mini-dumper truck and reversed out of the frozen mud onto the gravel track. He could hear the wheels crunching shards of ice on the hard ground.
Jeez, is this weather never going to end?
he thought.
This has to be the coldest bloody village in England.
He looked across at Kyle and Scotty who were already shovelling the sand he’d just tipped straight into the cement mixer.
“What time you make it lads?”
“Time for one more load, you lazy sod, Dylan,” said Kyle, not looking up.
“Not if I can help it,” said Dylan. “Sure it must be nearly four already.”
“Brickies are clocking off at four-thirty, done a deal with Gary,” said Scotty.
“So we have to work late without a deal, eh?” said Dylan. “Lucky us. I tell you lads — we
gotta
organise if we don’t want to get shafted all the time.”
“Don’t give me a hard time Dylan, I need the work.”
“Hey — we
all
need the work, just that some of us don’t like to have it shoved up our—”
But Scotty and Kyle weren’t listening.
Dylan watched them head over to the big pile of bricks in front of the half-finished house, their backs to him now as they picked and sorted for the brickies up on the scaffold.
He shook his head. Was a time when you could have a bit of banter on sites, laugh with your mates. These days it was all — do this, get this, don’t answer back, and jump when I say jump …
And this week was worse than ever. Word had come down from the Almighty that they were a week behind and they’d have to hit every Saturday until Christmas if they were to get their bonuses.
Bonuses? So what? Fifty quid cash in hand so’s you can doff your cap and act grateful?
He reached into his pocket and took out his baccy tin, started to roll up a quick one. Ten seconds later he had it in his mouth and lit.
One of the few advantages of taking up smoking at twelve years old, Dylan my son,
he thought to himself.
Can do a roll up one-handed and blindfolded.
He looked around in case Gary, the site supervisor, was lurking.
Don’t want to get caught having a fag, with that bastard itching to kick me off the site.
But then he relaxed. Gary would be in the warm site office at this hour, working on his spreadsheets, calculating just how hard he could work his band of not-so-merry men …
Dylan leaned back in the bucket seat, tipped his hard hat, pulled his jacket tight around his neck and puffed on his roll-up. He knew from experience just how long he could sit here before some primeval instinct in his foreman’s brain would kick in as the silence from the dumper truck began to register.
He looked around. Five new-build houses sprouting in a sea of rock-hard mud and ice. And dotted among them a couple of old cherry trees, a crab apple, a dying willow.
Shame. Even on a miserable cold day like today, he guessed that once upon a time this must have been a pretty garden attached to a big house. But these days who wants a pretty garden? Much better to tear down the old houses, put up new ones, make an obscene amount of cash.
Three months he’d been here, scratching around to put a few hundred quid together. Another month or so and the job would be done. The concrete was long ago poured, and the walls of all the houses were going up at some lick.
Brickies hard at work on each one, racing each other, racing to get to the next job, and then the next.
Too fast really. People were cutting corners. Leaving piles of rubbish around. Building crap spread all over the site. Dangerous.
Still, at this rate, in just a few more weeks they’d be working inside the houses under cover, out of this damned English weather.
He felt sleet on his face.
Oh, just what we need,
he thought.
Sleet on top of ice.
Ah well, look on the bright side. It was Friday. And he had a cracker of an evening planned.
First off, a few beers down the Ploughman’s with the lads. Nice bit of craic. They were good lads — mostly — and you couldn’t finish the week without sharing a pint your mates, now could you?
Then back to the caravan for a shower, slip into the old sexy jeans … Tidy the back of the Love Machine — clear out them shovels and that dodgy jenny which Ray had liberated from the site — and chuck in a duvet and pillows.
Nothing beats a Ford Transit for a cosy love-nest on a cold night.
Then meet up with the special lady herself and bag a couple more drinks at the Angel followed by a Chicken Tikka Masala at the Taj over in Chippenham.
Then — let’s skip dessert, shall we? — and off up into the woods in the Love Machine, crank up some good sounds then jump in the back for a couple of home-grown smokes and a bit of how’s your father.
Dylan my old son, you’ve landed on your feet at long last.
He flicked his roll-up into the mud, then started up the engine of the dumper and roared off towards the sand pile to pick up one last load for the day.
*
It was dark by the time Dylan locked up the truck and headed over to the office to clock off — a big cabin parked up in one corner of the site.
As he climbed the steps, the door opened and he saw a bunch of the lads bundling out.
“Mine’s a pint of Guinness, fellas,” he said, stepping back. “I’ll be right behind you—”
“You better had be, Dylan, it’s your effin’ round pal!”
“No way Jimbo, you sly beggar — you owe me from Tuesday. Get me a bag of nuts too, will yous?”
Dylan watched them heading off to the site gate, then he turned and entered the office, taking in the familiar smell of stale sweat, wet socks, old food, and off milk. It was the same smell in every building site he’d ever worked on. And that was a few …
He saw Gary Sparks at the desk, head bent over a laptop.
“All right boss?” he said making his voice cheery, though in fact he hated Gary Sparks.
And he knew Gary Sparks hated him. But he hadn’t put a foot wrong on this site and they both knew it. They also both knew that Dylan got the job done too.
But Dylan’s talk of organising — standing up for the poor bastards who work here — wasn’t popular.
Always some snitch who liked blabbing to the boss.
But, so as long as they were all under the cosh like they had been these last two weeks, Dylan was confident he still had a job come Monday.
Dylan took off his hard hat and stepped towards the door which led into the mess room.
“McCabe,” said Sparks. “Not so fast.”
Dylan turned. This didn’t sound good.
Had someone shopped him and Ray for the generator they’d liberated?
He watched Sparks carefully.
“Got a job needs doing,” said Sparks.
“What? You’re kidding me?”
“Tilers are coming into Number 3 at crack of. So I need tiles stacked and ready.”
“Hey, it’s nearly five now, boss. I’ve already done overtime.”
“So you’re doing some more. Get used to it.”
“Why me?”
“Look around. See anyone else? If you’d been a bit sharper you’d be gone too. But you’re not, are you?” The supervisor grinned. “So I guess you’re stuck McCabe …”